


A picture is worth a

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: M/M, Photo Shoots, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether it’s trying to capture the perfect picture to use for publications for the jazz circuit, or his life in general, Fletcher is always trying to control Andrew’s image.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A picture is worth a

**Author's Note:**

> A while back, [ramentics](http://ramentics.tumblr.com/) sent me a photo of Miles and said something like, "imagine this photo as Andrew's professional photo and Fletcher is standing off to the side and that's who he's looking at." Well, here is that fic.
> 
> For your visual representation, [here](http://miles-tel-her.tumblr.com/image/132046121555) is the picture in question.

“Don't bother trying to find his good side,” Fletcher says. “Unfortunately with him, you can’t fix ugly _or_ stupid.”

Andrew turns away from the camera to look at Fletcher, who stands off to the side and out of the shot. He's got his arms crossed tight across his chest and there's the residual scowl on his face that never fully dissipates.

Their gazes meet and Fletcher's scowl deepens. “Don’t fucking look at me! Face the goddamn camera!”

Andrew turns front facing again, and sighs. For the last ten minutes Fletcher has been criticizing him — _stand up straight, fix your collar, stop squinting the sun isn't that bright, can you at least appear to have a pleasant personality_ — and nothing Andrew does seems to be good enough.

So, as per usual.

“Um, smile?” the photographer says, but then she notices Fletcher shaking his head. “Or not? Just...be yourself.”

Fletcher snorts, and mutters something that Andrew can't quite catch.

Andrew heaves another sigh. “I don’t know why I can’t use a picture I already have.” It’s hot outside and the button-up shirt he borrowed from Fletcher is uncomfortable and too tight across his shoulders, a prickly reminder of what between them is not his. “We didn’t have to hire a professional photographer.”

“A selfie you took in the bathroom mirror with an Instagram filter isn’t suitable to use as a professional headshot.”

Whether it’s trying to capture the perfect picture to use for publications for the jazz circuit, or his life in general, Fletcher is always trying to control Andrew’s image.

“Let’s try one more time,” the photographer says, and then Fletcher takes over, counting out, “one, two, three,” and—

—and the last moment, Andrew turns his head to look at Fletcher.

He cannot resist it. The pull between them is too strong, and this is what Andrew communicates when his eyes meet Fletcher’s. That, _I know. I know that you are just as lost as me and I fucking got you trapped._

The shutter clicks.

“Damn it, Andrew! You incompetent fluffernutter!”

Andrew smirks. He thrives off these rebellious acts of injustice.

He knows that Fletcher will order to have the picture taken again, just as soon as he’s done berating him, but the photographer waves her camera to silence him, and says, “Actually, it came out pretty good.”

Andrew and Fletcher crowd around the tiny digital camera screen. There, is the still image of Andrew, captured at the exact moment he looked at Fletcher — hands behind his back, shoulders slightly slouched, expression sharp with elegance and intensity. It caught the private battle between him and Fletcher, showing half of what it looks like to share a secret only they know.

It’s a perfect image of Andrew’s reverence for Fletcher.

Based on Fletcher’s lack of an insult, Andrew thinks that the picture is acceptable.

Andrew nudges Fletcher and says, “Found my good side.”

Fletcher makes a noncommittal sound and glances up from the trapped image of Andrew to the living one, and slightly squints, as if inspecting the differences between the two. Then, Fletcher reaches forward and gently rubs his thumb across Andrew's cheek, and Andrew moves with his touch as his eyes flutter shut.

 _What will become of me next?_ Andrew thinks, before correcting himself, _What will become of **us**?_

There's a moment, but then it passes.

“So maybe we can solve the ugly problem,” Fletcher says, “but we still have to work on fixing stupid.”


End file.
